Pulling Through
by Mr. Delmont
Summary: A tale of survival told through the eyes of the survivors. Rated M to be safe. A collaboratory effort, the world its set in is © not me.


The evening was not really out of the ordinary for me. Watch'd TV, got inturrupt'd by news of riots in Madison, play'd some video games, stayed up late chatting on the internet, shower'd, went to bed. Uneventful. The next morning was anything but.

I wake up to the banging on my door that I've anticipated for years. Wet thuds of a large body sopping wet with something making that sound I can still hear in the back of my mind. A dull gurgling moan from across the threshold, like trying to speak while drinking and the fluid bubbles up in the back of their throat. I recognized that sound without ever hearing it before.

Trying to keep calm, I climbed down from my bed (I had a loft bed) and went for the heavy pair of scissors I snake'd from school. The screw that held them together came out easy. Aluminum. The thudding was getting harder. I went to my door as quietly as I could rush, taking the corner. Clutching one blade tightly in my right hand, I went for the doorknob and unlocked it. The thudding became cracking. I braced myself as best I could and pulled open the door.

The body on the other side blasted through the free door harder than I expected, slamming me in the ribs with the brass knob. I stifled the sputter in the back of my throat as I took aim at the bloody mess of meat that used to be my step-father. Moving foreward with steps as well aimed as my luck would have, I swung with my entire upper body into the back of his head.

I didn't expect the crunch as it penetrated, and he fell fast. In the movies they always go down slower. Moving backwards in shock at what had just happen'd, I tripped over my laundry basket. The way the half-coagulated blood hit me, the pattern it left. So distinct. You lose your head and you die. Get up, keep going.

Rising on shakey knees I closed the door light but fast, or at least that's what I wanted to do. Nursing my fingers, I turn'd to the mess on the floor, pausing to spit on its neck before looking for my bag. All the times I ran through how this day would go it never hurt so much.

Shuffling through old clothes I found my bag by my desk. Always half packed from dumping clean laundry on it to avoid having to hang anything up. I stuffed what I could inside it, things that used to be important. My phone, the battery, a deck of cards that I had even though I only knew a few games, books, my flash drive, my mp3 player. My computer. The gold necklace I never got to give away...

Come back to it.

I started to pull my phone from my bag to call Mike, then put it back. He'll be fine. Always could take care of himself anyway. Wouldn't want to inturrupt him. Grabbing my bag I went uneasily to the door and waited, listening for anything to tip me off. Nothing.

My hand on the knob, it occur'd to me that I was without a weapon to get me downstairs. My stomach protested as I lean'd down over the corpse on my floor and grabbed the handle of the scissorblade sticking out of it. I watched as I pull'd it out of the skull; ironic that doing it was unreal. The now-empty hole pour'd out partially coagulated blood. I never figured it to get that matted and thick so soon.

I wiped the blade as clean as I could on the hair before making for the door again. My hand shook from the chemical excitement as I made for the knob, I caught my reflection. I looked so distorted, but in a different way than just shape. I wasn't looking at the person I went to sleep as. This one in my reflection was awake, alive. Quit wasting time.

I open'd the door fast, so the creaky hinge wouldn't squeal. The hallway outside my room was smear'd with blood, partly dried to judge by the color. Odd that that's what I remember about that scene. The carpet crunched underfoot no matter how soft I step'd.

The trek down the stairs was slow and careful so as not to disturb anything that might be in one of the other rooms. Upon getting downstairs, the first thing I noticed was the state of the furniture. My mother, as bad at her job as she was, always kept the house pristine, so for a while it just didn't register what I was seeing. The pooltable was flipped over, the slate broken in half and hanging out through the aqua felt. Three of the chairs were broken, one was in the glass table's frame, the surface now scatter'd in a hundred thousand pieces amongst the remnants of the sliding glass door that made up a quarter of the west wall, sparkling in the morning light and dew like nothing bad had happen'd. The birdcage was thrash'd, but they were never in there anyway. I could see one of our cockatiels atop the kitchen cabinets, and from the chirping I knew they were both up there safe. No idea why that comforted me. I didn't even want to see what happen'd to the living room, but I could see a finger there on the entryway floor sporting my sister's blue sparkle nailpolish. Seeing that put me on edge, knowing that mother's darling little track star was somewhere near. I made for the garage as fast as I could and still be semi-quiet.

The shovel from the garage barely fit in my car up front with me, but I knew I'd need it quickly for striking range. I had the hatchet, but if there was more than one it would do little for me. Opening the garage door yeild'd an unanticipated sight. In the yard across the street the family was eating their daughter alive, or at least that's what it look'd like. Any one of them could've been the victim from the condition of their bodies, limbs loose and exposed muscle nigh torn from bone, parts of people you didn't think about were exposed. Noreen from up the street ran across the way after her mother, entrails bobbing behind against the rough street as she growl'd.

They hadn't noticed me yet, which was good news for me. They were going to notice me really soon. With the starting of my car all of the unoccupied former neighbors of mine suddenly came towards my garage. I back'd out fast, hitting the side of the garage, but a busted break-light was nothing to me anymore. I hit most of them, but I didn't bother to see who got up or who I missed. I raced out and up the street a ways before switching back over into drive and denting the bumper on some road trash. The shovel meeting their necks made sure I wouldn't have them for followers.

At the end of the street, I saw Mike wearing his heavy denim jacket stuffed full, a sock hanging out of his pocket. Pulling up next to him and unlocking, he got in more by jumping than anything else, landing square in the seat. For a split second we look'd at eachother and said nothing, both accepting what was happening and neither so afraid we couldn't act just how we always said we would, then he caught me off gaurd with one word. "Lauren."

I knew my car, we could take the quick way to save his girlfriend. As I hurriedly pulled a U-turn in a yard Mike cracked his knuckles knowing what was ahead. At the other end of the road was forest and swamp, sparsely populated by brush this time of year. I took aim as we went up to the brush and we dove headlong and jerkily foreward to the rescue.

First chapter to a project between myself and Eklekt of deviantART. More to come, from Mike next time. Review, if you would be so kind.


End file.
